Ragtag Ordeal
by kerricarri
Summary: Circa 1893. Upon the death of one Abraham van Helsing, his daughter is to inherit his God-fearing organization. But with the Queen at her front, Iscariot at her back, and only Dracula and two men at her side, Hellsing has its roots in blood and tears.
1. Beginnings of Sir Wilhelmina

Many canons were used as reference for this fic. Most predominantly is Brom Stoker's _Dracula_, although I've adopted one tiny thing from _League of Extraordinary Gentlemen_. People who aren't at all familiar with Stoker's characters (or major novel events) will find this fic annoying as it references and uses them like mad.

As this takes place at an earlier era in time than the anime, all of the characters will either be from _Dracula_ or will be OCs, but they won't be random in origin or thrown into the fic recklessly. Rather, almost all of them will have subtle but apparent significance to canon, and they won't be wasted (besides, there are only three). In the beginning, the fic will be split very evenly into distinct arcs for the sake of OC exposition.

Queen Victoria (1819-1901) is used as a character here and she's to become an antagonist. Her history doesn't need to be known because I'm totally fictionalizing her with some factual evidence in order to make her my own.

If you've reached this far, you obviously are interested. Please, go on.

* * *

"_I've…decided," she said, "to follow in the footsteps of my father."_

"_But why?" he said. "You love the children, and they will be crushed at this."_

"_It is because…" she sobbed, " I am unclean. I am no longer fit to teach innocent children any longer. I am unfit and Jonathan hates me."_

"…_Jonathan has been blinded and overwhelmed, and the children has nothing to do with his rejection. The children __need __you. You cannot allow this to break you, dear Madam Mina…not when you are so __**strong**__…"_

"_But don't you see, Professor Helsing? It was __because __of Jonathan Harker that I was so strong."_

_**-- London, 1878. Whitby.**_

"Telegram for you, Mrs. Harker. From a Mr. Van Helsing."

Mina Harker paused, surprise flitting across her features. _Abraham_ Van Helsing? Surely…not?

"Missus?"

She shook her head. It didn't matter anyway. It would be good to speak to the doctor again. But it had been so long since…

"Yes, Perkins. All right, thank you. Put it over there and I shall get to it in due time." She waved towards the writing desk, an absentminded gesture and an obvious dismissal.

The butler inclined his head, and then did as commanded. Just as he was leaving, however, he paused in the doorway, steps slowing to a stop.

"Yes, Perkins?" Mina said, without even looking up from her reading.

He hesitated. "Mrs. Harker." At the trepidation in his voice, she looked up. "The Master has also given word of his return to London. Shall I prepare the guest room for his arrival?"

Her heart grew cold and felt suddenly leaden with the news. Jonathan was coming back home? Unconsciously, she thought of this as not only her home but _his _as well. But she knew it wasn't so.

Not anymore.

When Mina replied, her voice came out as nothing short of frosty. "Of course. Do as you will to see to his comfort when he arrives." She immediately regretted her unusually terse tone as soon as she saw him flinch. Softening her expression, she said, "I'm sorry, Perkins. I—I did not mean to be so curt."

Perkins stiffened, straightening smartly. "No need for apologies, Mrs. Harker. But…what he also said in his missal was that to inform you that a barrister will be arriving at noon. In regards to your divorce," the old butler said; he knew this to be a taboo subject in the household, and so he glanced at her with wary eyes.

She seemed not to notice, though Mina did draw in a sharp breath. _So soon?_ And nearing Christmastime, no less.

"Is that all, Perkins?" She tried keeping her voice as even as possible. She was good at it, too, having had plenty of practice ever since she had to run her own household, when Jonathan left her to...

Her lips trembled. Surely her voice hadn't wavered as she thought it had?

"Yes, Mrs. Harker." Perkins's tactfully stifled manner never gave him away.

"Then you may leave."

He did so. Quickly.

And once she was completely sure the door was closed securely behind him, she let her face crumple into utter despair. Numbly she stood, her book falling with a thud to the ground from her lap, but the sound fell on deaf ears. Stumbling, she sat down at her writing desk, eyes unseeing.

She buried her face in her hands, a sob escaping her lips.

When had everything gone so wrong?

But the moment of self-pity swept away as quickly as it had come. Furious, she wiped her tears away with her sleeve, struggling in vain to compose herself. Crying over her doomed marriage! Crying over her divorce! Mina felt disgusted at herself. But though she stopped crying, her heart wept bitterly.

But she'd long stopped listening to her heart.

When Jonathan Harker would arrive, she would handle the whole matter coolly. She would not cry. She would not yell. No, instead, she would handle the meeting like the sensible, mature woman she was. She would smile prettily up at the lawyer and act as if the whole matter didn't hurt her as much as it did.

She would endure and discuss.

Endure...and discuss.

Yes.

And when the lawyer drew up the divorce papers, she would not cry. She would not.

She would not.

_**-- London, 1879. Whitby.**_

Not too long ago would she have cried joyously at his nearness, their closeness. She loved him, loved him more than he'd ever know. But that love withered and died away…

Rejection ran deep, after all.

Like a statue, Mina sat woodenly at her desk. Her back straight, her shoulders upright, and her posture stiff. Her skin seemed to glow a wondrous luster, as if a gentle halo of light was reflected off her skin. She had thought it was a trick of the light, until a couple days ago she realized that a miracle was taking place within her. But then she realized it was a curse in disguise.

How could she not have _realized_…?

She never did get to tell him. She didn't see any need to, not now. Not when he was so intent on divorce. And she would keep it that way, of course! If he wanted her out of his life, than so be it. Her affairs were her own…and he would no longer welcome her openness, would he? Of course not…of course…not…

Evidently, her dear friend Van Helsing heard of the awful news. His telegram expressed his urgency to see her. When they scheduled a meeting—and met they had—they had a joyous reunion. Yet Mina thought that he could see the taint of her sorrow and bitterness in her every motion, her every move, for so deep had the whole affair seeped into her soul.

"I remember a time when my tears were quelled by the Professor's soothing presence…but no more, for I am inconsolable."

Abraham Van Helsing had expressed his sadness at the Harkers' bitter ordeal. What stuck her deeply was that he _meant _it, as she knew he would've. He had, once again, offered his help at anytime she wished it, as he had given the oath to her months before when…when _**he**_ still plagued them.

Hearing him swear his oath again, however, made her considerably warm, and it showed in multitudes of gratitude that rolled off of her.

And though she didn't know it then, she would be in need of Van Helsing's services very…very soon.

However much she hardened her heart against Jonathan, Dracula, and the like—however much she _hated_ that lasting aspect of her life…she could not bring herself to hate her newborn child. She _loved_ that child. It was her own, yes, her own precious babe…

Van Helsing was extraordinarily cheerful when he pronounced one Madam Wilhelmina Harker a mother of a beautiful baby girl. A child unlike no other. So unnaturally beautiful yet so in likeness to its mother from which it came from…it was beloved and cherished. Raised both collectively by Mina and the Professor, it was loved and happy.

The babe was christened Wilhelmina Lucy Murray, named after her mother, her middle name in honor of Mina's dead friend. Dead. Killed by the Count, and then murdered by their own.

But…all good things must come to an end. It was a near two years later when Van Helsing would discover something that made his blood run cold. Something that shocked him so badly, horrified him so much, that he fell to his knees and wept bitter tears.

_The child had inherited Dracula's damned disease—!_

_**-- London, 1881. Whitby.**_

"Is there no other way?" Mina whispered brokenly. She clutched her child to her bosom and cried softly, "Can she not be healed?"

Dr. John Seward hesitated. "Mrs. Harker, the matter at hand, it—"

Abraham Van Helsing calmly raised a hand to stop him. Seward fell silent, grimfaced, but nodded tersely. He would allow his old mentor to soothe the hysterical female.

For who else could be so tactful when delivering such terrible news?

Still…it did not stop him from looking shamefaced and guilty.

Van Helsing embraced Mina comfortingly, as a sorrowful father would, and slowly whispered words to her into her ear. It had the desired effect; Seward was amazed to see Mina visably compose herself, as if she'd shed her cloak of despair and adorned a calmner one anew.

Once more, Seward felt his admiration for his old teacher grow.

Whichever words he chose to comfort the mother with, it worked as a balm as for a weary soul would. Though Mina Harker looked dreadfully pale, solemn, and fearful, there was something alight in those eyes of hers. Something…something absent before when the mother was forefront and was frightened for her babe, but was now present when the levelheaded Mina Harker of old appeared.

A show of such strength, of such courage, in the face of all this insanity, humbled the doctor in ways more than one. He stepped forward and clasped her two hands in his ones.

"Wilhelmina," he spoke quietly, but determinedly. Mina looked up quickly, surprised at his unusual address of her, so intimate, but Seward continued on, voice firm with hope. "The professor and I will do everything within our power to help you through this ordeal, for had we not promised as such all those months ago? Had the professor not sworn that whenever the time came that you needed his assitance, he would come unhesitantly? And I, as a grieving doctor then, for my dear Lucy had died, not cast aside all inhibitions and promised to help you then as, yes, I do now?"

At his heartfelt words and oath, Mina wept all the more, but it was tears of joy, not sorrow, that fell from her eyes. "Oh, John Seward, how good you have been to me! How good you all have been to me! If I could I would repay your kindness tenfold, and," here she turned to Van Helsing, "to you, the man who I will trust my babe to unerringly, there will never be a day where I will not come forth and offer my help to you whenever it is needed, whenever times are dire, to repay the favor you've bestowed upon me then as you do now."

"Madam Mina." Van Helsing's voice surged with adoration, a deep sense of love. "You need not repay the favor for I, as well as John here, know just how grateful you are to us. No, are we not friends, or even siblings, for the bond that we share between us is strong? We will come to your aid willingly, and you will come to aid us willingly. I know this and revel in it!"

"I do not deserve such love or kindness—no, I do not deserve them at all! But I cherish this gift of yours so very much. I sought comfort and I found it within you two unfailingly, and I love you all the more! And now my babe—my God—my _babe_…"

"Hush now, Madam Mina," Van Helsing said, and his voice was soothing to the ears. "This is not goodbye or farewell. You will see me frequently as I will you. And whenever you need me just contact Dr. Seward here and I will come immediately!"

"Thank you," she said. "_Thank you_…"

Seward smiled, eyes suspiciously bright. "Well, now," he said in a brisk sort of tone. "What is the name of your child?"

"I never did tell you, did I?" Her words held something akin to wonderment. Van Helsing chuckled, not bothering to wipe his face of fresh tears.

Mina rocked her baby and cooed softly before carefully handing her over to the doctor. Seward looked down at the babe in his arms in awe.

Happily, the child giggled and waved its arms into the air.

Mina gave a watery smile. "Her name is Wilhelmina Lucy Murray."

Seward's eyes softened as they peered closely at the baby's own. A smile rose to his lips, slowly, in delight. "Lucy, then, is it?"

Mina laughed, a cheerful sound. It was the first she had in what seemed months. "How Lucy would've been warmed at the thought!" she said. She spoke fondly not of her own daughter, but of the Lucy of old, the friend who had died many years ago.

And yet, somehow, Seward didn't feel bitter at the thought. He felt sadness, yes, as he always have at the mention of Lucy Westenra's name, but somehow, just _somehow_…he felt quiet content.

It was the child.

"Yes," he agreed softly, "she would."

_**-- London, 1884. Helsing Manor.**_

"Papa…Papa, won't you tell me another story?"

Van Helsing smiled gently, but firmly, as he tucked his ward into bed. It was times like these that he regretted his decision to take in Wilhelmina and regretted lost times with his own son.

He would have turned nine-and-ten years this year.

Yet…so much joy had been brought to him from the moment this child had first taken his hand and called him 'Papa'…but that was joy tenfold denied to his beloved friend Madam Mina.

A heartsick, heartbroken woman. He did not deserve her happiness.

Brushing back the girl's unruly bangs, Van Helsing murmured, "Mina, do you remember…your father?"

The child shifted under the sheets and peered up into his face. It made him inwardly cringe to see the open confusion on her face. "But, Papa, aren't you my father?" she said.

"_I'll never claim a child that was never mine!"_

Eyes sad from the memory, he gave her a solemn look. "No, child," he said. "I am not."

Wilhelmina fell silent, her face scrunched up in an expression of what seemed intense concentration. Van Helsing waited patiently for her to finish thinking and was rewarded when a small smile lit her face.

He'd didn't expect her to be sad, after all. Not for the man she'd never known, not for the father who'd rejected her, a mutual and unconscious action on her part as well. And definitely not when she was still yet so young, too young, to have remembered much of any angry words about him from years past. But her words next surprised him.

"It's all right, Papa. I know you aren't _really_ my father."

He shot her an inquisitive look, genuinely curious. "And how did you know that, Wilhelmina?"

Her face scrunched up even more. "It's because you're so _old_, Papa! You are a grandpapa much more than a papa!"

A loud burst of laughter came out from Van Helsing. What a delightful child! "Ah, Mina…Mina! How you make me laugh so!"

Wilhelmina giggled and accepted the hand that ruffled her hair playfully. "Papa!" she shrieked. "Papa, you're ruining my hair!"

"Oh, ho ho? Is that so? Then…what happens if I do _this_!" And then the old man set upon her, tickling her sides, taking in her smiles and laughter with every stroke, drinking in her joy and relishing it. Finally, the two of them lay on the bed, side by side: Van Helsing, chuckling, and Wilhelmina, grinning.

After a comfortable silence passed between them, the little girl turned her head to the side to look at her father's face. She smiled, poking at the stubble around his chin.

He batted at her hand half-heartedly. Giggling, she kept poking him, twisting away in mock fright whenever his hand got near in capturing hers. This continued on, this little game of theirs, until at last Wilhelmina tired of it and flopped onto her back in bliss.

"Child…remember when I asked you about your real father?"

Sensing a change to the mood, she sat up and nodded vigorously. He smiled gently when he saw how attentive she was being, and continued.

"I ask because…" he hesitated. "Child, I have received some awful news a fortnight ago about an old friend. Something has…happened to your papa."

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"Wilhelmina…your father has—died."

"Oh." Wilhelmina's eyes became downcast as she started to bite down on her lower lip—a habit, he found, to be one whenever she felt anxious or worried. She looked up. "I never met him, Papa."

Of course, he realized suddenly. She wouldn't have, would she? "Would you like to?" he said, the contours of his face softening with his words. "My presence is requested at his burial in a week and the funeral beforehand, but I was wondering if you would like to go, too. To meet your father, child."

Her eyes were luminous in the dark, shining brightly as moonlight lit around her frame with a soft glow. They glinted crimson as she spoke. "Yes, Papa. I would like that very…much."

And somehow, Abraham van Helsing mustered a smile.

_**-- London, 1893. Helsing Manor.**_

His beautiful, beautiful little girl—no, that wasn't right…she was a _young woman_ now, of only five-and-ten. His daughter…

_Why was I so blessed?_ he wondered dimly. _How could I, Abraham van Helsing, have deserved such a child that was such a source of pride and joy in my life?_

That child had grown up to be just as wonderful and warmhearted as her mother, but just as passionate and outspoken as her father. That child was now an _adult_.

And now his heir.

"Mina," Van Helsing rasped out. "Mina—where…where…?"

"I'm here, Papa!" Two small, warm hands clasped one of his withered old ones. Undeserving ones. "I am here! And I'll not leave you now—never ever!"

He turned his head to where he heard her voice and smiled. "Ah…Mina, Mina," he said. "You do this old man's heart well. I'm so _proud_…"

"Papa…Papa…please don't say it," she said. Her face, open and vulnerable, twisted with her tears. "N-not now…not _ever_…"

His smile turned sad when he felt the inevitable drops of wetness running down her cheeks and falling off her chin. Smoothing away those tears with his good hand, he allowed her sobs to quiet down before he continued.

"I've done many things that I'm not proud of, Mina. Many past transgressions that not even the Lord Almighty could have ever completely forgave of this old carcass of mine."

"Don't say that!" she said. "You're a good man, Papa—_a good man_!"

A ghost of surprise flitted across his face before it settled into a wry expression. "Thank you, Mina…but many would beg to differ. Many, many people…"

"I don't care about them at all!" Wilhelmina declared. "To me, Papa is Papa, no matter who he was or what he'd done in the past! I…I _love_ you! I don't care what you've done! A-as long as Papa is with me…e-everything will be all rig-ght…"

"Oh, child," Van Helsing said, "oh, child…I only hope that God will one day forgive me once more for what I am about to do." He shut his eyes tightly, murmuring, "Forgive me…"

"P-Pa…pa?"

"Mina." His voice had taken on a surprisingly strong note as his eyes snapped open. "Mina, listen to me, child, and listen well."

"I am, Papa."

"Very good. What I am about to tell you is so very important, Mina, _so very important_ that you must somehow move past your grief one day to full heartedly accept what I'm about to impart to you."

"But—but that means…"

"You must forget about me," he said, a firm undertone to his voice. "You must forget all about me. For the future."

"I'll never forget you!" Wilhelmina cried. She clasped his hand, which still rested on her face, and held it there. "I'll won't forget, Papa…you can't ask me of that, Papa, anything but that."

"Mina…" Van Helsing said with a sigh. "Mina, what I'm about to tell you is _larger_ than me…larger than _us_. Even everyone in this city, this country—and even," he chuckled, dry, "this _world_."

"Is…is this secret really that important, then?" She felt very small.

"Yes."

"So important that I even have to forget…you?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

"Remember…do you remember a man named Jonathan Harker?"

Wilhelmina racked her memories for the name but turned up blank, feeling that it should have been known to her. "No, Papa. No, I don't." But when he sighed, she felt she'd disappointed him somehow. Failed him, even.

"But," she added hastily, "the name is familiar to me. I know that much."

"That man…was your real father."

A bare glimpse of wood. A somber crowd of grim-eyed faces. A flash of the whitest and palest skin, alarming in its complexion….Eyes widening in revelation, she blurted out, "The funeral!"

"Yes, yes, the funeral—_his_…funeral."

"Then what you told me back then—?"

If possible, Van Helsing looked even older, and his face became drawn, thin, and shadowed. He answered rather heavily. "Yes, Mina," he said, "what I told you then was true and is still true."

"You weren't lying then," she said in a voice quite small. "You really weren't lying when you told me about...about monsters."

She sounded so hurt, so…so fragile that he had to close his eyes, for fear of letting her see the vulnerability in them.

"Fifteen years ago, everything I had told you at Harker's funeral had indeed happened. I did not lie to you then, Mina, and I will not lie to you now: Vampires exist in this world, atrocities spawned from evil waiting to consume us were we to allow ourselves to fall. This is the truth of the world we live in. The dead walks amongst us, watching and waiting and wanting to consume all of the living."

"But no one else knows? No one can stop it? H-how…"

This, he knew, would be the hardest part yet. "There are those," he said carefully, "who hunt these…these monsters, these _creatures_ of hell. Organizations, even, which dwell in secret behind society to protect those who could otherwise not do themselves."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Mina," Van Helsing's face betrayed nothing, "the Hellsing organization is one of those factions of vampire hunters. And I have been leading them since your birth."

"Wha…_what_?!" She stood up abruptly. "Papa, what are you saying? You can't possibly mean—!"

"Yes, I do mean it," he said. "For years you have suspected me strange, yes? Eccentric, even; you've avoided saying my name to the people of the town for fear of being looked down upon with sneers and prejudice. Even amongst your friends are you guarded, careful to hold me at arm's length."

"Oh, Papa!" She looked horrified. "But I did not mean to—"

"I forgave you," Van Helsing interrupted. "I forgave you long ago, time and time again, because I knew it was one of my many failings, something entirely of my own fault. '_I did not tell her_,' I said to myself, and so my own child thought me strange. I just—I only hope you'll someday forgive me." There was a raw quality to his voice, his last words somehow meaning more.

But Wilhelmina looked overwhelmed with it all; she did not seem to catch the subtleties behind his fervor. Instead, her face was alight with knowledge, a horrified type of understanding where she knew she would never be ignorant again. "Is this…Hellsing organization your secret then?" She clasped his hand. "Was this why you would not tell me what you did when you worked? You killed…monsters?"

"Yes," he said. "I was hoping—no, I was _begging_ for this day not to come. I did what I had to do: protect Britain, protect the Queen, and above all, protect Her Majesty's people. But what I had failed to foresee was the possibility of having no heirs…I did not ever suspect that my son would—" Abruptly breaking off, Van Helsing stopped to compose himself. He never finished his sentence.

"I am the heir, then, Papa?" Wilhelmina said. "B-but…I am not ready! I couldn't possibly—no! You can't ask me of this! _Papa_…"

"Think, Mina, _think_! What have you been doing all these years? Why have I taught you countless things, brought you with me as I conducted experiments for the scientific community? Time and time again, what have I been _teaching_ you?"

"No…no, but…"

"Why were you more intuitive, more intelligent than your own peers?" he continued on. "And why have you learned skills, techniques, _things that ladies should not know_? I have been preparing you for this day ever since your mother, Wilhelmina Murray, had died and had given you to me!"

Wilhelmina stared at him.

"You," Van Helsing finished breathlessly, "are more ready than you'll ever know, Wilhelmina van Helsing…_my daughter_."

When she said nothing, he feared the worst. Closing his eyes tightly, he said, "I know that you are shocked, Mina. And angry. I—this old man has too many failings, _too many to even count_, but my worst one, the one I regret the most…was that I had kept this all from you. To cloud your life with confusion, for causing such grief and pain for you, and to manipulate you as a man no better than one playing at God. I will understand…if you hate this worthless man now, Mina. I'll understand…I'll understand…"

He waited sorrowfully, eyes shut and yet desperate to see her face, but he felt only the faint traces of her trembling through their clasped hands. And so when he felt her pull away from his touch, he knew—he knew he had failed.

Van Helsing almost wept right then and there, but held in those tears. A man like him did not deserve to weep. Remorse. Only pure men could express their worth as such.

But when his daughter suddenly flung herself at him fiercely, hugging and sobbing with tears of her own dripping down onto his face, he felt himself let go. He opened his eyes and he, too, started to sob. Fresh, great gulps of them—crying like he'd never cried before, because this was his daughter and she had forgiven him.

_She had forgiven him_.

"What must I do, Father," she said, pulling back to look at him with solemn but adoring eyes, "to make you proud?"

Abraham van Helsing felt as if a great burden had been lifted from him, a burden he had shouldered, willingly, since his boyhood, ever since he'd encountered those monstrosities of the night, ever since he vowed they'd all suffer at his hands, ever since he had worked towards the creation of his lifelong goal—that ever distant and impossible dream…

_Hellsing_.

And then, quite abruptly, Van Helsing started to laugh. He laughed, a laugh half choked with a passion he barley understood but reveled in, and an almost giddy feeling erupting in him _demanded _to be released—an old kind of laugh of his that he had done so frequently in his youth, whenever he came one step closer to his goals, when he'd met and saved his friends from fifteen years back, when he'd stopped the monstrous No-Life King, his lifelong enemy, when he saw his darling little girl cry, laugh, shout, pray—

_He was home. He was finally…finally __home__._

* * *

The thing I don't like the most about Hellsing fandom is how so many _Dracula_ characters are put down by authors to the extent that they never flesh out their personalities—or even consider them. These are not 2-dimensional piss poor antagonists who blindly experiment upon a 'helpless' Alucard. Yes, Abraham was of a singularly objective, cold, and scientific mind in the novel, but was he so heartless that his sadism towards Alucard in fandom justified? Abraham only acts cruel to the extent that it necessary, and any cruelty from him would only come from the necessity of meeting Dracula head-to-head...but no more. He does not find pleasure in pain, not like a certain vampire lurking about canon.

In any case, I wish people would paint more sides of Abraham than just the doctor who will take any means to meet the end. I can't stand the thought that these characters are only there to be a plot device to make Alucard suffer in his early imprisonment years. It gets old, fast.

Now that my rant is over, I have to say that I rather like this chapter since the tone fits the times and the novel. Also, Mina and Jonathan only divorced in _League of Extraordinary Gentlemen_, where Mina's still a vampire. In the book, she has a son with Jonathan, which they name after a dead character. Here, I've made Mina pregnant throughout the whole Dracula mess, and it seriously screwed up her kid. Wilhelmina's vampiric nature is latent at the moment and it doesn't really become an issue until later.


	2. Beginnings of the Madman

Forgive me for any botched accent, but I tried my best with the dialogue. The East End of London, at this time, was overcrowded, filthy, and crime-ridden, the worst Victorian London had to offer in real estate. The Industrial Revolution created a filthy place, but it serves as an interesting backdrop for this chapter.

Anyways, this is the next part of the OC exposition arc, following the same format as the last but featuring a different original character. An insane one. But first, his mother!

* * *

"_So…" she drawled, "what's yer pleasure, mister?"_

"_..." _

"_Come now, sir," said she in a sly sort of manner. "We cannot have you stand by the door when it is so much warmer here on the bed. Come, sir, come!"_

"…_Don't you remember who I am Aislinn?" the stranger said._

"_Wha—? N-no! It's __you__! D-Duke, why…!"_

"_Hmheheheh…I won't leave. Not until I get my __**due**__. I'll teach you to run away from me again!"_

_**-- London, 1878. Unnamed Brothel, East End.**_

Languidly, she stretched out on the chaise comfortably, slowly, as though she had all the time in the world. It was pure bliss that she felt as clean as she did, having just taken a bath, and she would relish in the feeling as long she'd like—and damn the consequences! But no matter how much she didn't want to mar her body tonight, it was inevitable, really...

She may have lived a life of vice, but she enjoyed moments like these when she could pretend she was faraway, far from this place, this life, _this_ _world._

She liked to dream as a child, but her jaded lifestyle rendered her of even that. All she had now to look forward to was the present. The future.

"Ye, sure," she mumbled. "One of motherhood, no less." Straightening up, she stretched her arms high above her head as her back arched and gave a satisfying crack. She purred, perhaps unconsciously, as she fought the urge to slither back into the bed and lay there like a puddle.

Standing up, she shimmied out of her soft, comfortable clothes and stood there in her shift, deciding to don new attire, a dress with only one scandalous layer. She'd long forgone the bleach white and whale bone corset, but winced nonetheless when the bodice felt particularly tight around her breasts. Habit made her shrug off the uncomfortable sensation as she tied the stays from behind. Soon enough, the strings were deftly laced into intricate knots— expertly tied or so it seemed.

This business was all about appearances, after all.

Grimly satisfied, she smiled at her reflection in the cracked mirror before sweeping out of the room with a flourish. Her exit was much more pretty than the dingy room she'd just left.

It was time to get back to work.

Lot good it did for her, though. She almost snorted, but held in the unladylike sound tightly, however ironic it was.

_Unladylike. _Really.

God's blood, she was _Aislinn_! The prized prostitute of the Duke, the one famed to tempt even the most pious of men, the one whom married men ran off to. Whispered among nobles as a paltry whore, but _ooh _a temptress, no less. Her face was angular with cheekbones held high, but it was her hair that was her glory, that brilliant and shining red mane, offset by her brilliant green eyes. It was her greatest asset and she hoarded it as a precious jewel. She could slip on the grace of a lady while her face was plain enough to play the part of men's fantasies, but…

_She was fallen._

Glamor and galore in this business was not the most welcomed thing, though it was much flaunted for all it was worth. It was hated, yet loved, despised, yet adored…but the attention served to her only made her feel colder and colder inside. And no matter how hard she tried, she felt as if she couldn't breathe no more.

_She was fallen. And she was with child_.

Aislinn suddenly stumbled and clutched at the wall. _She was with child—!_

How long until it was discovered? How long until it was found? _How long until she was cast out_?

She was so sickened at the thought of carrying a despicable love child, but no matter how hard she tried she could not find it within herself to get rid of it. Once, she was desperate enough to turn to either mystical or brutal means to take the thing out of her belly, but not anymore. And she didn't understand why. _Why_ was she putting herself at such risk for the sake of the godforsaken thing?

She felt ill now. Frequently so. And ungainly. She wondered how long she could hide it; she wondered if she could.

The Duke was already getting suspicious.

So why could she not bear to see it die?

Suddenly, she wanted out. She wanted nothing to do with this business, nothing at all. She wanted away, so far away that no one would ever recognize her. Somewhere so, so away that one could not immediately know what she was with but one glance…

She immediately slapped herself, an odd, self-destructive habit of hers. She often had these flights of fancies in her head, and surely should anyone hear of them she'd be laughed and jeered at, and then cast out to die…

And yet…_ she wanted to be somewhere where she could raise a child in peace._

Aislinn stilled and stumbled again. This time, she did fall.

God's blood—where had _that_ come from?

Emotions vied for her attention, emotions she'd rather not name. As if suffocating, she scrambled to her feet and fled the hallway and swept past countless rooms with groans and screams of pleasure, past nameless and empty faces that seemed to _condemn her_, and past—_oh God—everything she'd ever known_ and threw herself out the back door with a gasp.

Cold, freezing air hit her like a wall. She stood there with the strangest feeling of suspension, as if the world held itself still, with the door frame behind her and clutched at with two clenched hands. Her chest heaved and jutted into the air.

And, shivering, she lightly stepped down into the snow, the wooden door slamming shut behind her, as if to bar her from the building.

Well. She was fine with that. Yet she couldn't deny the cold. Her bare shoulders and the vulnerable top of her breasts made that fact undeniable.

She didn't know what compelled her, what urged her on, but she started to walk. Aimlessly, she wandered, each crunching step falling heavily upon the fresh whiteness beneath her feet. And yet…with every step, she felt more content, lighter in step—happier, almost.

Elevated.

It was as if with every step she took away from the brothel she felt a deep sense of pleasure she long ago stopped attaining with sex.

And then, it began to snow. Lightly at first, barely any at all, until it soon fell into heavy blankets. But soft. Much softer than any coarse pallets she'd ever slept on. It was a suspended waterfall of gently falling snow.

Her steps slowed to a stop. She didn't know how long she stood there, gazing up at the sky while getting colder and colder, but her mind was turning in an almost peaceful, blank direction.

She didn't think at all. She only breathed and only felt and only—lived.

Soon enough, her clothes were covered with pretty whiteness and snow had settled on her bare shoulders. But she felt…

At peace.

It was then she decided she rather liked the feeling. And she wanted to keep it…for herself.

_**-- London, 1879. Somewhere in East End.**_

Pain unlike any other; Aislinn thought she was dying. The so-called doctor, bloodied and bedraggled, furiously working between her legs. Their dirty surroundings. The man's unclean implements. The cold floor and spiky hay she laid upon.

Her aching back and swollen belly. Her screams.

Aislinn thought she was dying. And if she wasn't, she wanted to die.

Here, amongst the poor and the pitiful and the crime-ridden streets of East End, she wanted to die. Many babies at this moment, she knew, laid in the gutters, dead and abandoned. Their pasty, deadened skin haunted her, flitted about her head.

She saw them for herself, after all. Every single day she had to pass by those babies, and her small frame would be racked with dry heaving, sobbing, and retching at the sight—wondering, knowing, thinking..._that could be her babe_.

She didn't want that. She didn't want it at all. But what could she do? A young whore with a bastard child, unmoving and unseeing, lying in a forgotten alleyway...

Or dumped in the Thames. In all the messy, murky grit of the river. Doomed to the depths of crushing, rushing waters, flaking skin and tender muscles rotting away beneath the surface...

And her baby! What of the babe?

What of the babe...

"My baby..." Aislinn moaned. That moan broke into a scream of pain as the man pulled relentlessly with a long, curved forceps with a traction bar—_with all the strength he possessed_. She could not see, but the skull of her yet unborn child was suffering past her misshapen bones.

But she could certainly feel it, feel every cruel pull of the babe's head and out of the canal. Could see the detached and grim-set face of her doctor. And she felt frightened.

"Please," the young mother said, eyes shut and teeth gritted from the childbirthing agony, "...please don't let my baby die."

_**-- London, 1881. Unnamed Tavern, East End.**_

The toddler looked up into the woman's eyes and smiled, reaching out with childish arms. "Mama."

The young mother let a slow hand trail across the tufts of red hair on the boy's head—her _son_'s head. Unwittingly, she frowned. Aislinn crouched low and hugged the child towards her; he let out a giggle.

"Mama," he said again, voice muffled against the front of her bodice.

Another tender stroke of his head. "I want you to grow," she said. "To have no regrets, not like your mum."

Her words dropped in tenor. "I've run away. Again. _That man_ will tear this part of London apart to look for me...and I'm scared."

Sensing her changing mood, her boy began to squirm. Her hold on him tightened, but her eyes were unseeing. Distressed and confused, he tried to burrow away from her arms, but she never let go.

She would never let go.

"I'm scared, Janus," she said, voice cracking. "I don't know what to do from here or where to go. This is an honest living I'm playing at, but it's a poor place to raise a child. And that man..._he won't let me go_. I—I've condemned you."

The boy Janus stopped his struggling when something hit his face. Wetness. Little drops of them. And when he looked up, he saw that she was smiling—a half-horrified, stricken smile.

"Oh, God," she said. "Oh, God. What have I done?"

_**-- London, 1884. Unnamed Tavern, East End.**_

"'Ey! You there! Where are the drinks, missy?"

"'Ehehe…ye'd best hurry up and do wat yer being paid for, girlie!"

"Yes, yes, I'm coming, _sirs_. Be patient or I'll not give ye any of yer precious drinks!" she huffed, but she was smiling playfully and her coquettish antics roused the crowd.

"Saucy little wench," one of them commented, grinning ear to ear, and reached out to snag her by the waist, heedless of the drinks she carried.

Giggling, she slapped him lightly on the hand, as if to reprimand a naughty boy, but did very little to stop his wandering hands. Catcalls erupted from his companions, impressive hoots and hollers of either encouragement—or jealousy.

Stiffly, primly, a woman came up behind her, dressed in similar dull, faded colors of pale whites and reds. Unlike her friend, that sassy and promiscuous barmaid at the table, she looked distinctly uncomfortable.

Some of the men looked up eagerly from their drinks at her arrival, but lusty smiles turned into knowing chuckles when they saw who had come.

Barely anyone noticed said woman's growing irritation.

"Oi, Aislinn! I didn't see ye there!"

"Obviously not," Aislinn said. She jerked a hand towards the back of the tavern. "The master wants to see you, though I haven't the faintest idea why. I'm done for the day. So are you, for that matter."

"Thank ye very much, Aislinn dear," the barmaid returned sweetly. Her features were positively saccharine, not even betraying her sneer. "Why don't ye be on yer way, then? I'll just be going now."

"'Ey, girly! Why don't ye entertain us for awhile instead, eh?"

Aislinn turned her frosty glare onto the men, ripping through them with her gaze and finding them utterly lacking. Pursing her lips, she pivoted sharply away, very well aware of lecherous and taunting eyes following her lithe body in her wake.

One of the men whistled. "Bit o' temper in her, I think."

"Oh, please! _Prudish_, more like!" the barmaid shrieked, laughing. "Miss High and Mighty acts as if she's the Queen o' England herself! Bet she's even a _virgin_, what, with the way the bitch lady carries herself!"

"Ye don't say…"

"Really! Wanting to be a real _lady_, I would say."

"And ye don't?" another man laughed.

"Come now," she said. There was a coy twist to her lips, beckoning glances towards it. "My place is here, with you men, gentlemen." She leaned back, purring into the man's arms, which settled comfortably above her bosom. Ones that fairly spilled out of her dress.

The men grinned again and talked even more boisterously than before, and soon the issue of the prudish barmaid Aislinn was promptly dropped.

But the barmaid in question, however, was very well aware of not only the lust the regulars had for her but of the issue of her haughtiness and condescension.

It bothered her. It really did. To feel their scorn and lust hand and hand for her. To her mortification, she felt tears spring to her eyes as she hurried away. Her vision was so blurred, she could barely see.

But...she swore, she _swore_ she wouldn't do it no more. No man would touch her body, not if she could help it. Not anymore. Not after Duke.

Blindly, she ran down the corridor, footsteps slapping loudly against the floorboards. She couldn't stop, couldn't stop, _couldn't stop_, until she could just stop _feeling_—

"Mother?"

She gasped, falling to the floor, and the door fell shut behind her with an ominous finality. Panting without restraint, she looked as if she'd been starving for air only to take her first breath of sweet, sweet air, looking as if she couldn't have enough.

But the air was anything but sweet. It was suffocating, relentless and merciless on her lungs. Old despair and panic settled over her shoulders, threatening to bring her to the floor—too late! Her laugh was hallow as she rested her head against the boards.

Tainted. Rancid, wretched sweetness, and a heady curling sense of _wrong_. Suffocation...it wanted to overwhelm and consume her, _but she would not yield_.

"_Mother_! Mother, w-what's wrong? What's the matter?" Her child, her sweet, sweet precious boy, fumbled for a tattered cloak to rest upon her hunched form to wear. He was crying, she realized, with not a little guilt. Her little boy was _crying_. And what was she doing? Sulking upon the ground as if she were the dirt men trampled upon!

She grappled around for anything to say, but what came to mind was wholly different than what came from her lips. With a desperation she could already feel seeping into her bones, she scrambled to her knees and clasped her son's shoulders. "Is this enough?" she whispered.

Poor son looked confused and not a little wary. But more confusion mixed with the lost understanding of a child. "What…what do you mean?"

"Tell me, love, what do you see in this room?" she said, gazing at him with frenzied, searching and wide-eyed, stricken eyes. She was beginning to frighten him with this...this fervor of hers. What was so important about her question that her manner would be panicked so?

Janus swallowed and mustered a smile, however dry. "We live in a tavern, Mother," he said. "We don't have much at all…"

He watched with strangely shrewd eyes as his mother struggled to form words. She was speechless. With guilt. With sorrow? The gentle hands that rested lightly on his shoulders trembled, but she did not turn away.

"But it's enough," he said, leaning into her touch. "It's more than enough…"

Already she was beginning to calm, but more worries attacked her brow and made them wrinkle and furrow.

She was shocked, he saw, and she tightened her hold on him and rested her forehead against his, overwhelmed with emotions. "But why…?" she said, fairly choking. "How can it be enough, darling? Why don't you hate this? How can you bear it?"

He pulled away from her embrace to look at her. "Hate this? I don't understand," he said slowly. "This is home. This is where you are. It's more than just enough."

Without replying, she clutched him into her arms. Head pressed against her, his brows furrowed as her tears ran on. Some even hit him in the face, mingling with his own.

"Love, why are you crying?"

"I…I am _not_ crying," he said, furious swipes to his eyes contradicting his words. "I'm not!"

"Oh, child," she chuckled, low and hoarse but laughter nonetheless. She stroked his hair absently, smiling. "Oh, love…"

A few beats skipped and he said, "Mother, why are you crying?"

She stared down at him, an inscrutable look on her face. But, finally, something relaxed in those eyes of hers and she gently laid a kiss on his forehead. "Don't ever change, love…don't ever let the world change you.

"_Don't ever let yourself become like me_."

_**-- London, 1893. Unnamed Brothel, East End.**_

What seemed like a regular visitor from a lusty customer turned out to be much, much more.

It was a massacre.

A man—nay, a _boy_ of no more than fifteen years, sauntered across littered glass and stood, a sword grasped limply in his hand. The boy swayed and the man behind him, who was playing possum on the floor, was quick to jump to his feet with a yell. The man flung his gun arm forward.

Before he was even able to fire the weapon, the boy pivoted sharply and sliced jaggedly, sloppily down into soft and supple flesh. The man's howls more than satisfied him. Almost absently, he ducked low to cripple the man's heels, bringing him to the floor.

He looked detached with his killings, absentminded, almost. As if this was all boring tedium to him.

The boy did not stay to watch the man fall. Though his blood sang and boiled with adrenalin, he did no more than cripple all who opposed him on his way through the building. And any _whore_ that stood in his way was cut down without a second thought. Only the foolish dared to do so, whilst the rest had fled—he snorted—in _mid-ecstasy_. They were the ones smart enough to leave when the killing had just started.

Indeed, his bloodlust was giving a guttural cry from the bowels of his belly to the tips of his toes. It demanded release, but he would not indulge in it tonight.

No, tonight he needed his _wits_ about. He wanted to _see_ the bastard's face when he would—_gut and eat his entrails __**raw**_—kill the man in cold blood. He wanted the man to throw himself at his feet and _beg_ for mercy, for his worthless, pitiable _life_.

And, by god, he would get his revenge.

"_Mother," he said in a broken cry. "Mother, what's happened to you? Why are you like this…Mother? __**MOTHER**__!"_

And there…! THE MAN WHO—_by God I will kill him Mother Oh God his eyes those __**eyes**_—_KILLED HER_!

But none of these psychotic impulses were even hinted on the blankness that was his face. His ever-present smirk, however, was seen stretching ever broadly in sick glee. It signaled the devil to the poor man at his feet, of terrors and horrors to come. The boy's red hair acted as the flames of hell and in those glimmering green eyes, the man saw his own death.

Cowering like a whimpering pile of _filth_, there laid the Duke. A rat, no more human than a pig's gutted corpse splayed in the marketplace. It was there, present, in the monstrous glint in the boy's eyes that rose with ferocious delight as _he would revel in his death_!

"Hello…_Duke_," Janus said. Taking a step forward, he crouched in front of the weeping man and fingered the blade of his sword, relishing in its sharpness and the blood that dripped from its gleaming blade.

"Please…_p-please_…d-d-don't ki-_kill_ _me_…!"

Leaning forward ever slightly, the boy reveled in the whimpers that he elicited just from that small movement. And the _fear_ he could practically _taste on his lips_...

"Tell me…_Duke_," he said in a drawl with that ever special emphasis on the name. "What do you know of the prostitute named _Aislinn_? Answer correctly and maybe I'll spare your testicles." A twitch to his lips. "I won't make your whores rip them and eat them and obtain _pleasure_ from them like so, for example!"

At the barely concealed threat, the man clutched at his crouch feebly, all the while sobbing out, "I know _not_ of some bitch whore Aislinn!"

Janus's grin seemed to freeze upon his face. _"Wrong answer_, Duke!" he said, slamming the quivering lump of a man against the wall. "Looks like it's _meat _tonight, boys!"

The Duke didn't respond. Only whimpered.

He slammed the fat man into the wall again, features twisting in his anger. "Well? Answer me! Answer—answer me, _Duke_!"

The planks of the wall shook violently at his touch, his terrible, violent fury. They eventually stilled, with only the Duke's wretched sobbing breaking the silence.

Janus narrowed his eyes, disgust and disdain in every nuance of his expression. He couldn't believe this _thing_ was his mother's killer.

So pathetic_…_

"_You're not even worth my time_!" he snarled, wrenching the man away from him. His euphoria was wearing off now that reality was settling in. All he saw before him was this…this pitiable excuse for a villain. This feeble old man…_who killed his mother_.

That more than justified the Duke's slaughter. Ridding the world of him would do it much good. But…

"Where is he?" Janus said, throwing arms out wide. "The Duke of legend? This nefarious, ruthless man…where is he? For you are not he."

"_I am he_!" the Duke shrieked, clawing at his breast, the floor, the wall. "I am he!"

Janus yawned, pulling the sword where it had fallen onto the ground. "Surely you jest," he said. "I came in here and slaughtered your brothel and I am about to move onto you, and you're here spewing _lies_?"

Somehow, some way, the Duke drew from the last vestiges of his mindless courage to draw himself up. And Janus knew only from looking at him that he was seeing but a glimpse of what the Duke was before he was reduced to this _thing_.

"Demon!" suddenly screamed the Duke, jerking an extended fat finger at him. "_Monster_!"

Janus looked at him, blank-faced.

Never before had he felt so…cheated.

Killing the Duke was more of a chore now. But he had to make one thing clear—

The Duke gave a great, heaving gasp. "Y-you! You're that bitch's son! The _whoreson_!"

That got Janus's attention. He delicately raised an arched brow at the man. "...So you recognize me," he said, voice mild enough. "Finally."

"You wanted to know more about _Aislinn_ the _prostitute_, yes?!" the Duke said, triumphantly hysterical. He didn't wait for Janus's response before he continued. As he spoke, he gained more and more confidence, more vigor, and more stricken fervor.

Janus turned on him with furious eyes.

"Your mother was nothing more than a whore," the fat man spat, but his quivering betrayed his awful fear. "She worked for me—aye," he added, seeing Janus's attention fully on him now, "a whore through and through till the end! Why, she even _begged_ to take me into her—yes, _yes_! But the little bitch didn't deserve to spread her legs for me! _So I killed her_! Ha! I _**killed**_ her!!"

How the Duke had gotten the nerve to scream at him up until now was beyond Janus. The only thing he was dimly aware of was his arm moving by its own violation and the sharp sing of metal cutting through air.

And then...nothing.

It was only until God knew only how much time later, far into the night and back into the blackness of the world, when Janus clutched a bloody, severed head in his hand that he realized what he had done it.

He'd avenged her.

So why did he feel so_…_

Lovingly, he caressed the blade that fed him blood as he _licked _and_ licked_ and—_oh god __**licked**__—_stroked the filthy, matted hair clenched in fingers that _twitched_ and relishedreLIshed _loved the feel of blood spraying from his fat body splayed A sacrifice_ to Mother _I LOVE y-you Please don't worry and god his Eyes his _eyesWHY?!

…_don't ever change, love…don't ever let the world change you…_

_Too late_, the last slither of consciousness thought in him whispered before _everything_—!

Stopped.

* * *

Note: The Duke is not a real duke.

If you haven't noticed, each chapter so far has been split into identical dates. Meaning, Wilhelmina and Janus are the same age. The next chapter ends the OC exposition arc with a man who is eight years their senior. He's much different than the insane Janus or grief-stricken Wilhelmina.

After the third chapter's done and over with, another 3-chaptered arc is going to happen in the same order of characters as this one had: Wilhelmina, Janus, Walter. Yes, you read that last part right.


End file.
